Muse
by Oboeist3
Summary: Alfred F. Jones was a photographer. A totally awesome, amazing, heroic photographer. But when bad weather ends his shoot, he ends up sad as the dripping rain around him. But a chance meeting with a mysterious new Frenchman leaves him with a new muse, and perhaps something else. {{FrUs Oneshot. Gift Fic for toothpaste-face on tumblr. Please R&R and DFTBA!}}


[[Hello there, oboeist here! So it's the lovely Shebb's birthday, who happens to run the greatest FrUs blog of all time, and got me hooked on the ship. I found the beginnings of this lame thing in the dark recesses of my computer and finished it up a bit for her. It's super lame but hey gays. I hope you all enjoy reading it anyway and DFTBA!]]

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Alfred F. Jones had always been raised to appreciate beauty. His mother was an artist, his father an author and they told him since before he could talk to remember the details, remember the little wonders in everything. He wasn't always the best, but when he was, his parents claimed him a genius. He could remember in perfect detail the sky when he was told he was going to have a little brother, a soft, light color, like pink lemonade spilled by a clumsy god. He could remember the first time he tasted a hamburger, fat and cheese drenching his tongue in a concoction so delicious it was practically unholy. But nothing stuck more in his mind than the day he met him. Francis Bonnefoy.

It was a rainy day, the kind that comes down in sheathes of clear droplets that slid down car windows and pooled into little puddles, though thankfully not windy, as Alfred had to walk in it. He was a bit sad because the rain had ruined his shoot, his camera hanging off of his neck like an untied noose. He trudged along the grey sidewalks and sloshed through water like any pouty young man, hands shoved in pockets, eyes on the ground, only looking up when necessary.

"Stupid rain." he grumbled, kicking the concrete like it would solve his problem, even though it wouldn't. He was on Main Street now, the one part of the small town that regularly had people on it, so he reluctantly tore his gaze from the square stones upwards. Only when he did, he was met with the sight of an angel.

Blonde locks that fell down smoothly and effortlessly to the shoulder, curled ever so slightly. Blue eyes so deep the ocean was a shallow puddle compared to it. An average height body making a simple purple shirt and pants combo more elegant than the finest silks, though he seemed the type to have both. And his face... so perfectly framed, a picture would do it no justice. But if anyone could try, it'd be him.

"H-Hey!" he called out as the man walked into a café, nearly hitting his face on the door in his hastyness. It was Eliza's café of course, the best one in town, but at the moment, he didn't care. He had to find that angel. He looked around the nearby booths and bar chairs but found only the usual occupants, the German mechanic with his midday treat and a few scattered old ones, like those Italian brothers grandfather. Flirting with a waitress of course.

"Ah, Alfred amigo! It's so nice to see you again!" called out a cheerful Spanish voice, smiling brightly at him in his black apron and nametag, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo squeezed in the small space. He sometimes wondered how he had managed that.

"Hey there Toni. Have you seen a blonde guy come in here?" he asked, his head still swiveling like an owl or a spinning desk chair. "Shoulder length hair, purple shirt?" Gorgeous, he mentally added.

"Sí! My old friend Fran, back from Paris. Such a lovely town~" he cooed, heading back to his work. Alfred had mostly forgotten about him anyway, lost in his quest for the supposed Parisian. Then he spotted him, just out of the corner of his eye, talking with the town's resident albino and laughing softly. It only seemed to add to his beauty, he thought.

"Excuse me! C-Can I take a picture of you?" he stuttered out as he walked over, and when that gaze landed on him, his whole body seemed to be made of jelly. "I-I mean, I'm a photographer, and I-I guess you get this a lot, but uh... you're really attractive." he babbled out, a bright flush appearing on his face when he realized what he'd just said. That sounded so creepy!

But it didn't seem to faze the Frenchman, other than a slight expression of surprise, but it melted into a soft smile that tore at his heart as if demanding it accommodate room for him. "Of course. Always happy to patron the arts. In here is good?" he asked, his voice as smooth as the rest of his, lilting and a bit off in places, but not in a bad way.

"Um...I don't know. Just wherever you feel comfortable. The lighting is pretty nice in here, but... if you don't mind the rain..." Alfred trailed off, completely freaking out in his mind. He actually said yes, and now he had no clue what to do.

"Not at all. Just hold onto my phone." he said, fishing it out of his pocket and placing it in Alfred's shaking and sweating hands, lingering a bit longer than necessary perhaps. He couldn't even tell anymore.

"Great! Let's just go round back." he said, unaware of any ulterior meaning behind that, though if asked, he wouldn't deny that he had that certain kind of attractiveness, in the coy smile and the way those eyes seemed to look right through you. They did so and Alfred spent a few minutes fiddling before raising the lens, looking at the beauty through the crisp glass, even more so up close.

"Now I need you to act as normal as possible. Just act like I'm not here, Mr...?"

"Bonnefoy. Francis Bonnefoy. I'm afraid it's very hard to act like you aren't here, Monsieur? "

"Alfred. Alfred F. Jones." he said, a slip of a grin on his face.

"Alfred... It's a very nice name. It suits you." said the blonde, and something about the way he did it made him feel bashful.

"Thank you. I like yours as well Francis." An exotic name for an intoxicating exotic man. So intoxicating he almost missed a perfect expression, eyes looking up at him and body just so, just perfect. The softly dripping rain only added to it. "Hold that!" he demanded, taking as many shots as he dare allow before he changed, as they were so opt to do. Sometimes he wished he photographed buildings instead, just to have consistency, but he didn't have the heart. His passion was people, everything about them, and in that moment, especially him.

Eventually he lowered the machine to find him looking at him, almost nervously, though the confidence still shone from him like the rays of the sun. "Oh yes, this is great! I mean, you've made it great! I mean... you're great." he said, laughing a little. "Beautiful." he breathed out, looking at that ethereal man with wide eyes.

"I hope so! I've never been called attractive so much before!" he said with a chuckle, stopping him before he could stutter something out. "But it's a very nice change. If I might be so bold, maybe we could do this again?" he asked, and Alfred felt about ready to have his heart leap from his chest.

"Yes! That'd be amazing!" he said with a face splitting grin, feeling like he'd won the most valuable prize on Earth.

"Bon. Let me just write my number down." he stated, digging in his pockets for a pen, pulling on his hand and scribbling the numbers in a small, neat style that tickled as he did so, as well as kissing him softly on the cheek. "For luck, non?" he said, walking off without another word, and Alfred could only stare at the man who had become his only muse.

"Yea. For luck."


End file.
